Bonefire of the Vanities (12 page)

“Sherry and Brandy are very special women.”

Here was a chance. “You know they ran a brothel in New Orleans.”

“I do.” She didn’t flinch. “Brandy and Sherry had a lot of pull in New Orleans in their day. I knew them in the ’90s. When I was married to the arms dealer. I often sent clients to them for entertainment. Men who enjoy big and powerful guns often enjoy pliant women.”

Marjorie was certainly not provincial in her outlook on the flesh trade. My respect for her notched up. “Do you really believe the Westins can help you connect with Mariam? She’s been gone over thirty years.”

She smoothed the coverlet she’d thrown over the chaise. “I know it sounds ridiculous. At times I realize I’m grasping at straws.” She patted my hand. “You’re young, Sarah Booth. Each year you live will bring choices, and some of those will lead to disaster. The day I sent Mariam out the door with Chasley—” She turned away to compose herself.

“You had no idea anything bad would happen. You can’t blame yourself. No mother can be with a child every moment. A child would suffocate.”

When she met my gaze, she was completely calm. “I knew something was wrong with Chasley. I knew it. But my husband needed my help. We were on the brink of pushing his business into a global concern, and it was so important to him, to his ego.” Her voice lowered. “I sent Mariam out of the house because I didn’t want to be bothered with her for an afternoon. I had to meet with the florist and the caterers. I had to prepare for a
party
.” The last word was spoken with such savage fury, I recoiled before I could stop myself.

“You were helping your husband. I’m sure Mariam wanted to go to the docks with Chasley. The whole thing had to be an accident.”

Tinkie entered with a tray of coffee, juice, and toast. She had service for three, and I wondered how Palk had reacted to this latest mutiny of his authority, but I didn’t interrupt Marjorie to ask.

Marjorie took the cup Tinkie offered. “I’ve fought every day to believe Mariam’s death was unavoidable. An accident. A terrible tragedy. Chasley said she fell off the dock and he tried to save her, but he wasn’t even wet. The police brought him home and he said, ‘Mother, Mariam fell in the river and drowned.’” She paused, seemingly lost in the memory. “His clothes were dry. He was always such a neat boy. His pants were still creased. He told me and then went up to his room. It was as if he told me he’d lost his raincoat.”

The scene as she described it was surely a ticket to her nightly hell. Could Chasley, even as a boy of fifteen, be so totally deadened that he had no reaction to his sister’s death—a death he’d likely witnessed? If not more.

“What did the police report say about Mariam’s death?” Tinkie asked.

“It was ruled accidental,” Marjorie said. “To be honest, I don’t think they investigated. Mariam was ten. She fell into the river, and she couldn’t get out. Chasley said he ran to the warehouses for help, but he couldn’t find anyone. He found a pay phone and called 911.”

The story sounded plausible. He was, after all, a boy of fifteen. “But you felt Chasley should have done more?”

“He was on the swim team of his high school. He was an excellent swimmer. Why didn’t he jump in and try to save his sister?”

Tinkie’s troubled expression reflected my own. It was a good question, but how many fifteen-year-olds would have the presence of mind to jump into the Mississippi River to save another child?

“What did Chasley say?” I asked gently.

“By the time he returned to the docks and thought to try to swim out to help her, he couldn’t see her. He called and called, but she never answered. They found her body downriver.”

“Could Mariam swim?” Tinkie asked.

Tears fell from Marjorie’s eyes, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. “No, she’d never learned. She was terrified of water. I tried three summers in a row to enroll her in swimming lessons, but she hated it. So I didn’t make her learn. Yet I let her go to the docks with her brother because I had a party to plan. A party.”

Tinkie put her arms around Marjorie and simply held her. I sat like a bump on a log, unable to say or do anything to alleviate Marjorie’s pain.

A knock broke the silence in the room. When I answered it, I found Palk standing at attention.

“Please have the dirty linens to the laundry by nine,” he said.

“And the laundry is where?”

“The washing machines are in the basement. Stella comes in at six and washes, dries, and irons the sheets.”

“And what about Mrs. Littlefield’s personal items?”

His smile was malicious. “Those are your province, Miss Booth. Since you are here eating the food, you will attend to all your mistress’s needs.”

“Absolutely. And since you didn’t ask, she’s feeling much better today.” I closed the door.

“That man has a broomstick up his behind,” Tinkie said.

To my surprise, Marjorie laughed. “He is overbearing,” she agreed. “I had a lovely butler when I was married to my third husband. He was gracious to everyone, and managed the household with kindness. After he retired, I made sure he was well taken care of.”

The topic had turned away from talk of Mariam, and I was glad. Marjorie’s complexion was pink and rosy, but I worried about her. “I think you should join the others for lunch today,” I suggested. “It isn’t good to stay here in your room. And later, I hope Madam Tomeeka will show up with Pluto.”

“I’ve missed him!” She opened the closet doors wide, displaying a massive wardrobe. “In that case, let me get dressed. Perhaps we could take a stroll around the gardens. I’ve been told they’re lovely.”

Tinkie gave me a knowing wink. We’d accomplished one thing—getting Marjorie to leave her room. Fresh air and exercise would do wonders for her. Pluto’s arrival would be another strong tie to this reality.

While Tinkie escorted Marjorie on a walk in the garden, I stripped the sheets and hauled them down to the laundry. Stella, a middle-aged woman from a crossroads community west of Layland, eyed me with open curiosity.

“You the personal maid of Mrs. Littlefield.” She snorted. “Right. I’ll bet Palk’s fit to be tied.”

“What makes you say that?” I took a seat on a washing machine—one of four. Stella had a professional ironing board, several steam irons, a pressing machine, and a steamer for delicate fabrics. She worked as she talked.

“Even a blind fool can see you aren’t a maid. Now the question is, what, exactly, are you?” From a refrigerator, she brought out starched shirts monogrammed with an
R.A
. Roger Addleson. Using an old Coke bottle with a corked sprinkler, she dampened the frozen shirt and spread it out on the board. She picked up a heavy iron with an arm defined by muscle. The wrinkles flew out of the shirt like magic.

“I’m here to protect Mrs. Littlefield.” But I didn’t want to talk about me. “What do you know about the room down the hallway—?”

“I know about it. That’s where they hold their spirit sessions. Palk told me never to open the door.” She didn’t miss a lick with the iron. “I don’t cotton to calling up dead things. No tellin’ which ones are gonna answer.”

I could appreciate her attitude. “So you’ve never been inside the room?”

“Nope. And that’s not gonna change.”

“What’s the story on Sherry Westin? Can she really communicate with the dead?”

“That’s the rumor.” She finished the shirt, put it on a hanger, and picked up the next one. I loved the sound of the sprinkled water hitting the cold starched shirt. When I was a child, my mother’s friend Carrie would iron in our kitchen. I’d almost forgotten the sounds and smells of a hot iron on starched cloth.

“Do you think the Westins are on the up-and-up?”

She put down the iron. “Marjorie Littlefield didn’t get rich by bein’ a fool. I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep on her concerns. Rich folks know how to protect their assets. They can do that when they can’t do nothin’ else.”

She’d managed to evade my question, which was aggravating. Interesting but aggravating. I was about to ask another, but the washing machine stopped. Stella signaled me off. I slid to the ground and she transferred the wet sheets to the dryer.

“Are there any other locals working at Heart’s Desire?”

“You sure are a nosy girl.” She pushed the iron over a white oxford cloth shirt. “You know the old sayin’ about curiosity killin’ the cat?” She pointed the iron at me. “Some things are best left alone. Things in this house don’t like a ruckus.”

“Things? What do you mean?”

She bent over the ironing board, refusing even to acknowledge my question.

“Stella, what things? Like spirits? Or—?”

“I’ve said all I’m sayin’. Stay out of the spirit room. Folks around here aren’t what they seem. Mind your own business and get on the other side of the gate as soon as you can. And don’t go draggin’ me into trouble I don’t need.”

“Nice chatting with you,” I said as I eased toward the exit.

Stella only mumbled to herself, and I thought I heard “and good-bye to you, too, nosy girl.”

The hallway was long and narrow. The basement’s configuration defied me. There should be more rooms, but I couldn’t find them. As I cogitated on the dimensions, movement at the end of the hallway was like a punch in my gut. A moment before, the hall had been empty. Now, though, a figure shifted in the dense shadows.

My first inclination was to run back into the room and hide behind Stella. She would brook no nonsense from a ghost. But I wasn’t at Heart’s Desire to be a coward. Taking a deep breath, I eased forward. One pace, two, three. Something moved at the very end of the hall right at the door that led to the séance room.

“Who’s there?” My voice came out a whisper.

Inching down the hallway, I longed for the flickering sconces that had lighted the way the night before. I’d failed to find the light switch, and now my heart pounded in the dim gloom. My gut screamed at me to head for the stairs and my partner. Tinkie was diminutive but stalwart. Instead, I moved toward the shadowy door to the séance room.

The door hung open. I would never have such an opportunity again. I slipped inside and felt for a light switch. Of course, nothing would be so simple. Stumbling over furniture, I made my way around the room, my hands groping for some means of illumination. When I found the candles and a lighter, I couldn’t believe my luck.

With the help of the candle, I located the light switch in a recessed panel to the right of the door. The overhead lights showed me a large room with three mirrored walls. No other exit.

Massive pieces of furniture—some large enough to hide a grown man—were in two corners. What I found made me smile. High-tech equipment that could record and filter low-level sound filled one cabinet along with a voice distorter. This would yield some unique and very personalized EVP, or electronic voice phenomena. Oh, Tinkie would flip over this!

The equipment appeared pretty simple, and I turned it on. A low, guttural sound made me jump backwards. I gave a shaky laugh at my own spookiness. The white noise grew louder and then dimmed, and beneath the static was a voice. Even with the lights on, my skin danced along my arms in goose bumps. Yet I couldn’t walk away. Something held me transfixed.

The garbled voice gained clarity, and I froze, paralyzed by fear. This was a recording, a past event. I couldn’t shake the sensation, though, that it had been left for me to hear. But by whom? Mariam or the Westins? Or someone else?

“Mother!”

The word was distinct and clear. “Mother. Beware!” A low-register laugh followed, as if it came straight from hell.

I hit the Off button on the machine and slammed the cabinet door. Around me the dimness felt menacing. There were dark hangings, dark shadows, darkness all around.

Stella’s warning reverberated back to me. She didn’t want to talk to the dead, because she wasn’t certain who would answer.

Who, or what, had just spoken to me?

I replaced the candle, snapped off the light, and made it to the door. I’d gained the hallway when footsteps descending the stairs warned me someone was coming. Likely Palk, spying around. I pulled myself together and met him at the foot of the stairs.

“Miss Booth,” he said with distaste. “Are you doing the laundry or weaving it?”

“Neither,” I said sweetly. “I thought I heard a big rat. Turned out it was only you.” I brushed past him as I climbed from the basement into the light-flooded main floor.

I made a beeline for Marjorie’s suite and pulled Tinkie from the room. When I told her about the recording, she insisted we go back.

“If it’s a warning for Marjorie, we have to tell her,” she insisted. “I need to hear it.”

A minor disturbance in one of the meeting rooms where Brandy lectured on global opportunities claimed Palk’s attention, and Tinkie and I used the servants’ stairs and descended into the bowels of Heart’s Desire.

Palk and the maid used the back stairs to go to the second floor, and I’d heard someone climbing them to the third floor where Brandy and Sherry’s apartments were. Tinkie had explored and discovered a door at the top of the back and main stairs that opened only with a keyed code. Entry to the third floor was a mission for the future. Tinkie was intent on hearing the recording in the spirit room. She literally dragged me to the lower floor and down the corridor.

Once inside, I went straight to the cabinet with the recording equipment. I played back the CD.

“There’s nothing but static,” Tinkie said after a few minutes.

Feeling foolish, I motioned for her to be patient.

The whispering white noise filled the room. Like an old AM radio station when the dial has slipped. Nothing more. We waited for at least five minutes. No creepy childish voice spoke.

“I heard it,” I insisted. “A little girl with a harsh voice said, ‘Mother. Beware!’ Just like that.”

“There’s nothing on this CD,” Tinkie said.

I couldn’t explain it. I knew what I’d heard. No one had had time to get into the room and change out the disk or erase it. “I did hear it, Tinkie.”

“I don’t doubt you,” she said. The furrow between her brows deepened. “The spirit has chosen to communicate with you, Sarah Booth. If that was Mariam, and I think it must have been, she delivered her message to you. We have to protect Marjorie.”